


And On the Solstice

by Tseecka



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Solitary Confinement, Starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders prepares for a date night with Karl--as best he can, from the confines of his tower cell.</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>For the Tumblr RP Domesticity/Intimacy drabble prompt, "Cuddle Up a Little Closer"</p>
            </blockquote>





	And On the Solstice

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by anonymous for the "Cuddle Up a Little Closer - Domesticity/Intimacy Meme" on Tumblr. They requested Karl/Anders with the prompts "date night" and "forehead touching".

There was very little water in the cell, but Anders did what he could, wetting down his hair in an attempt to wash the grease and the dirt and dust from his locks. He had no mirror; had to rely on touch, fingers combing through the strands to put them in some semblance of order, palm gently brushing over his scalp to try to feel if there was anything out of place. Gathering his hair into a tail—Maker, when had it gotten so long?—he pulled the leather thong from where he clenched it between his teeth and wound it around the base, tying it securely. 

His heart pounded as he touched his head, trying to determine if there was anything out of place. 

He dipped his fingertips back into the shallow, shallow water, trying not to feel the grit at the bottom of the cup as he wet his skin and brought his hands to his face. He scrubbed, as best he could, wetting his cheeks and chin and forehead, grimacing as he wiped away the stains and sweat; his fingers brushed over his naked thighs, swiping away the dirt, returning to the bowl for a few more precious drops. 

The water couldn’t wash away the heavy shadows he knew had to be under his eyes, nor could it clean away the streaks that would look like dirt on his cheeks where the bones of his face protruded out from gaunt, taut skin; but he would do the best he could. Cleaned as best he was able, and quickly dried as the vague moisture evaporated from his skin, he carefully unfolded the set of dirty robes lying on his cot and dressed himself. The material was threadbare, and scratchy, and chafed against his skin; but it was clean, a set of clothing he had kept hidden from the Templars who brought him his meals and occasionally new prisoner’s garb. Saving it, for a special occasion. 

He sat on the cot to wait. His fingers, nails ragged and ruined down to the quick, brushed over the marks he had scratched into the wall. 157 days since he’d been thrown in here; the solstice. He wished he could see it, the moon heavy and full in the sky, the smoke from bonfires burning across the lake, the multicoloured flashes that the Enchanters lit off for the younger apprentices to celebrate the turning of the seasons. But for the tiny window in his door that gazed out, there was no opening to the outside world, no way to mark the passage of the sun and the passing of the nights if it weren’t for the meal that was brought to him on a daily basis. But his marks had been sure, scheduled, and he knew—he knew—that this was the day. 

"On the solstice," Karl had whispered to him, hands clasped in a frantic, fleeting grasp as Anders had been hauled from his classroom, gruff Templars clenching too-strong fingers into his already-bony shoulders. "I’ll find a way, love." 

It didn’t even occur to Anders to consider that Karl might not have been able to do so; and that was a good thing, because once the marks on the wall had reached 90, then 100, it was the only thing that gave him any semblance of hope. Solitary confinement really could drive a man mad, and more than once, Anders had caught himself bitterly wondering if any of the mages left below, the enchanters who were his mentors, the apprentices who were his friends—even remembered him. He was left alone without his magic, without company, only the echo of his own thoughts (and his own voice, when he could no longer bear the silence) to keep him company. Cut off, in every possible way, from the world. But his fingertips against the stone, the quiet scrape as he dragged his thumbnail over the rough, chalky rock—that had cemented his sanity. It was symbolic of the promise, and moreover, of the belief, the knowledge, that the man who had never once let him down—who had been there beside him, behind him, nearly since the moment his hesitant too-big feet had crossed the threshold of the tower—would somehow manage to fulfill his promise. 

He heard a door open. 

Before he could even think about it, he was on his feet, fingers twisting in the rough weave of his robe as he stared wide-eyed at the tiny window in the door. The blackness was nearly absolute, and he held his breath, watching, waiting for the glimmer of light in the darkness to belie the progress of a torch towards him. He heard scuffling, the sound of boots on stone, and his heart sank; those were Templar boots, hard metal, not the soft leather shoes that Karl preferred. His heart leapt into his throat at the idea that there might be a guard posted, tonight of all nights; that the one night Karl had promised to come to him, he would be thwarted by the Knight-Commander’s overbearing sense of authority, and his determination not to have it bucked by any upstart mage. 

He pressed his hands together, pressed his nose into the space between his index fingers and his thumbs up and under his own chin, and silently sent a prayer to the Maker. Hate me and the gift you gave me all you like, he thought bitterly, but grant me this. You owe me this—please.

"Anders?"

The voice was so chokingly familiar, so painfully treasured, that Anders’ heart clenched as he heard his name. He felt his heart whisper a thanks to the heavens who had listened, and in three strides—the cell was small, far smaller than it should have been for a man his size—he was across the floor, fingers wrapped around the bars and gazing out at the familiar, adored face of his Enchanter, his Karl. 

He let out a laugh, relief and gratitude mixing with a sudden crashing wave of despair and loneliness, of all things. It came out sounding like a strangled sob, and in an instant, Karl’s hands was through the grating, his fingertips brushing Anders’ gaunt cheek as he hushed him, murmured soothingly, “Oh, Anders, love—”

Anders turned his head, pressing a fierce kiss to Karl’s palm, and stepped closer to the door as though by being close enough, their body heat could pass through the wood, and comfort each other. Even being near enough to hear the soft hushing tide of Karl’s breath was more painful, more beautiful, than he could have even imagined. He let out another quiet sob, resting his forehead against the bars; and Karl matched him, their skin brushing lightly in a familiar ritual caress. 

"Sorry I’m late for our date," Karl murmured, his voice rough and gravelled with emotion, and Anders laughed softly through his tears. 

"I knew you’d come."


End file.
